Middle-Earth Musicals: The Military Man
by J.R.R. Not-Tolkien
Summary: Middle-Earth is in trouble - and the Ranger Aragorn Dunedain is going to do something about it. But when he delivers his warning to a little stubborn village in the Shire, along with an offer of service, has he met his match in the people of Hobbiton? Or will he help save them from the growing darkness . . . and encounter love along the way? (Adapted from "The Music Man")


**Hello there! I'm the Jade Raven of Rivendell - pleased to meet you!**

 **I'm not a newcomer to FanFiction - I've been around since November 2015, but I _am_ new to the Lord of the Rings fandom. I really wish I had fallen into the marvelous world of Middle-Earth before now, but I haven't been able to appreciate it until just recently. Now I'm head-over-heels in love with it! :D**

 **This is an experimental FanFiction on my part - it's a crossover between _The Lord of the Rings_ and a 1950s musical known as _The Music Man_. I'm loosely borrowing the plot from _The Music Man_ , as well as the rewritten versions of the songs from aforementioned musical. It's been challenging, but I'm having fun with it, and I hope you enjoy it as well!**

 **I'm planning to include a link to the songs on my profile, but as of right now, I haven't located them yet, so . . . um . . . yeah. Unless you know the songs already, this probably isn't gonna make sense to anyone.**

 **Well, I've got to get going - but I leave you with Chapter I of _The Army Man!_ I hope you enjoy! Naamarie! (Note: the major italicized bits are songs)**

* * *

 **The Army Man**

 **Chapter I: Not Your Everyday Caravan**

Our tale begins in a quiet country village in the land of Middle-Earth, somewhere between Rivendell and the border of the region of Eriador.

We observe an unusual sight on the road leading out of town - a score of horses in two perfect rows of ten. Upon closer examination, we see that the two leading horses are tied loosely to each other by halters around their necks, and that the horses behind them are secured to them by a rope knotted loosely around their back left legs, the direct followers kept in line behind them by the other end of the rope tied around their left forelegs. This pattern is repeated for the other sixteen horses down the line, the one difference being that the gentle hemp manacle around the foreleg and back leg was the only way of keeping them in order.

They are all blindfolded, most likely to prevent one from being spooked and thus setting the whole arrangement into a disarrayed frenzy. This is a wise move, as this unusual composition―still a work in progress―is a caravan of sorts. But not an ordinary one, as the people we see, mostly Men, but also a scattering of Dwarves, are not all the same ones who had been riding in this caravan when it left Rivendell earlier that day. A scarce few were, such as two Men from Minas Tirith and Edoras, who had taken this caravan for several days before arriving at this quiet provincial town.

We observe this caravan with interest―this is something that we have never seen in Middle-Earth before―multiple travelers riding together, and arriving or leaving the group when they reach their desired destination, quite at their own leisure.

This is fairly useful for the wandering merchants and peddlers who haunt the roads of Arda on foot, their heavy wares weighing them down and exhausting them after only a day or two's worth of walking. And for the Man, Elf, Dwarf, or even Hobbit who seeks a trip across the land with an ever-varying company of pleasant folk and the most splendid of views without the discomfort of sore feet or the fear of the danger which so often lurks in wait for the lone wanderer, this is a welcome device.

But it is not always honest folk who use this new sort of caravan for travel, as we, the silent bystanders, soon observe.

* * *

"All aboard what's coming aboard!" The grizzled caravan driver's yell rang clear through the late morning air. Most of the saddles in the caravan were filled, and while his bags were bulging with passengers' fare, the leader knew he couldn't make it through Eriador without a stop of two―these horses, despite being fed and watered at each stop, were quickly growing weary of the long roads, and he knew of only one town in that region that would just tolerate an overnight stay on his part―to even _think_ of replacing the beasts was unheard of in this part of Middle-Earth.

 _Well, looks like everyone's aboard,_ the man shrugged, glancing back behind him to see if his passengers were ready to ship out.

But before he could snap the reins of the leaders, one more man, with surprising agility for the amount of heavy clothes he was wearing, ran up to the group, vaulted into an empty saddle, and shrieked, "Move, man, move!"

"All right, all right, no need to shout!" the caravan driver snapped back, irritated by the newcomer's impatience. As he snapped the reins and the horses began their trot down the road, he didn't see the group of five or six men who had stopped as the caravan moved away.

"Let 'im go, Ferny," one grunted―he was holding a rather threatening billy club. "We've made it plain we don't want no more o' _his_ kind in Bree."

* * *

As the caravan slowly moved down the country road, one of the travelers, a Dwarvish merchant, frowned at the late passenger. "What in the name of Thorin Oakenshield was _that_ ruckus about, Gríma?"

"Ah . . . a minor misunderstanding," the Man, Gríma, answered quickly, dusting himself off and attempting to appear casual.

Although clearly no one believed him, the other passengers shrugged it off. "As I was saying―" the Dwarf turned to another traveler "―credit is no good for a leather merchant."

A little further up the line, a young Man asked his neighbor, "How far are you going, friend?"

The other fellow, another Man dressed in a cloak and smoking from a wooden pipe, replied quietly, "Wherever the need arises . . . friend."

"What's the matter with credit?" the other side of the Dwarf salesman's conversation demanded.

"It's old-fashioned!" Although with notable reluctance, the Dwarf turned to the Man Gríma for back-up. "Gríma, you sell anvils―do _you_ offer credit?"

"Not at all, Master Gimli."

While he did not offer credit, Gríma offered a rather unpleasant smile to the Dwarf Gimli, who quickly turned back to his companion. "Nor anybody else?"

"Hobbiton, next stop, Hobbiton in the Shire!" the caravan driver bellowed from the head of the lines.

No sooner had he said this that he suddenly spurred the horses to quicken their pace, and the abrupt increase of speed sent most of the passengers falling face-first into the necks of their mounts.

After spitting out unpleasant tufts of horsehair and readjusting themselves in the saddle, Gimli said, addressing his fellow merchants and peddlers who accompanied him, " _Gold for the merchandise, gold for the harnesses―_ "

"― _gold for the cotton goods, gold for the hard goods!_ " another Dwarf, an elderly bloke named Gloin, added.

" _Gold for the fancy goods, gold for the soft goods,_ " Gimli continued.

" _Gold for the noggins and the piggins and the firkins!_ " Gloin agreed.

One of the Men, a younger fellow named Hama, added, " _Gold for the hogshead, cask, and demijohn; gold for the crackers and the pickles and the parchment paper!_ "

This continual chanting kept in perfect time with the _clippety-clop, clippety-clop_ of the horses' hooves, which was gradually increasing in speed. " _Look, whaddya talk, whaddya talk, whaddya talk?_ " another Man called out.

" _Where'dya get it?_ " a third yelled.

" _Whaddya talk?_ "

" _You can talk, you can talk, you can bicker, you can talk,_ " said Gimli, with all the seasoning of a veteran salesman in his voice, " _you can bicker bicker bicker, you can talk, you can talk; you can talk talk talk talk, bicker bicker bicker―you can talk all you want to, but it's diff'rent than it was!_ "

" _No it isn't, no it isn't,_ " Gríma interjected, ever the argumentative one, " _but you have to know the territory!_ "

" _Chi, chi, chi, chi, chi,_ " Hama tried to soothe oil over the troubled waters beginning to stir between Gimli and Gríma. " _Why it's the oliphaunts made the trouble, made the people wanna go, wanna get, wanna get up and go―7, 8, 9, 10, 12, 14, 22, 23 miles to the council seat!_ "

" _Yes sir! Yes sir!_ " the others chorused.

" _Who's gonna patronize a little bitty farmer's market kind of stand anymore?_ " asked Hama, slightly derisive.

" _Whaddya talk? Whaddya talk?_ "

" _Where'dya get it?_ "

" _Gone, gone_ ―" Hama sighed.

" _Gone with the hogshead, cask, and demijohn,_ " Gimli concurred, " _gone with the sugar barrel, pickle barrel, milk pan; gone with the tub and the pail and the tierce―_ "

" _Ever meet a fellow who goes by Dúnedain?_ " A new voice, that of a Gondorian named Beregond, joined the conversation.

" _Dúnedain?_ " Gimli was confused.

" _Dúnedain!_ " exclaimed Gríma, gnashing his teeth at the name.

" _Dúnedain?_ " With each refrain of the name, the speaker's head turned towards Beregond.

" _Dúnedain?_ "

" _Dúnedain?_ "

" _Dúnedain?_ "

" _Dúnedain!_ " Beregond repeated, spreading his hands.

" _No!_ " they all replied as one.

" _Just a minute, just a minute, just a minute―_ " Gríma tried to cut in, but Gimli beat hiim to it.

" _Never heard of any man Dúnedain,_ " said the Dwarf, frowning at Beregond.

" _Now he doesn't know the territory,_ " Beregond began.

" _Doesn't know the territory?_ " exclaimed Gimli, slightly appalled―this was unheard of for a traveling merchant.

" _What's the man's line?_ " asked an intrigued Hama.

" _Never worries about his line,_ " replied Beregond.

" _Never worries about his line?_ " repeated Gimli, shaking his head.

" _Or a doggone thing―_ " a few of the Men frowned at the younger Man's use of strange slang "― _he's just a bang-beat, bell-ringing, big haul, great go-neck-or-nothing, rip-roaring, every-time-a-bull's-eye salesman! That Ranger Aragorn Dúnedain!_ "

" _Tell us, what's his line? What's his line?_ " Gloin called out.

" _He's a fraud, and he doesn't know the territory!_ " shouted a furious Gríma.

" _Look, whaddya talk, whaddya talk, whaddya talk, whaddya talk?_ " the Man from before asked skeptically.

" _He's an army man!_ " stated Beregond.

" _He's a what? He's a what?_ " Hama was more than confused.

" _He's an army man, and he sells scimitars to the men in the town with the big bow-and-arrows and the long-range spears! Big strong swords, big strong swords; and the pike and axe, the pike and axe with suits of armor too with matching shields and banners and even a cape or two._ "

" _Well, I don't know much about armies,_ " Gimli folded his arms across his chest, " _but I_ _ **do**_ _know you can't make a living selling swords and spears, no sir! Man-made blades, perhaps, and here and there a dagger―_ "

" _No, the fellow sells armies―full armies!_ " Beregond proclaimed. " _I don't know how he does it―but he lives like a king and he dallies and he gathers and he plucks and he shines, and when the man battles, certainly lads, what else? The gen'ral pays_ _ **him**_ _! Yes sir! Yes sir! Yes, sir. Yes, sir._ " The horses were beginning to slow down. " _When the man battles, certainly lads, what else? The gen'ral pays_ _ **him**_ _!_ "

" _Yes, sir! Yes, sir!_ "

" _But he doesn't know the territory!_ " Gríma screeched, just as the horses pulled to an abrupt stop. Once again, the riders were nearly thrown out of their saddles―only this time they fell backwards instead of frontways.

"Get a move on―we're nearly there!" the irate caravan driver barked, slapping the flank of the horse who had caused the unexpected delay. With a surprised _whinny_ , the animal obediently started at a trotting pace, quickly followed by the others.

" _Now_ , if you're all through," Gríma sneered, "I'll tell you the truth about this man who calls himself Aragorn Dúnedain."

"You know this Ranger fellow then?" Beregond asked eagerly.

"Never set eye on the man, but I'll tell you truly―he's out to destroy the honest name of the wayward salesman," said Gríma, looking very much like a cunning serpent as he spoke, turning to make eye contact with each and every man who watched him. "The next man to offer his wares at a town _he's_ visited is all but burned alive by the unfortunately bigoted victims of Dúnedain's latest ruse."

"What ruse?" demanded another man.

"He can't sell _armies_ anymore than you can make an Elf dance on his bowstring," Gríma smiled disparagingly. "Not only does he have to supply _all_ the armor _and_ weapons, he has to _guarantee_ to train all eligible men and boys in the town to fight!"

One of the travelers whistled. "That's a challenge for any man to undertake―I'd be impressed if he could do it."

"He _CAN'T_ ," Gríma smirked. "You know what I see when I see his 'handiwork'? Nothing but farmers and stable boys playing at soldiers. It's the con of the Age, I tell you, and he's dragging us down with each town he betrays."

"Keep your forked tongue behind your teeth!" an elderly man on a white horse barked. Long-bearded and cloaked, dressed all in grey and carrying a gnarled wood staff, his piercing blue eyes glared straight into Gríma's wilted periwinkle ones. "They do not call you 'Wormtongue' without cause, Gríma," he said, and his gaze made Gríma shiver in fear. "You tell no truth―the man of whom you speak has done what he promises and more."

"You speak well and wisely, Gandalf," another traveler, auburn-haired and blue-eyed, spoke up. "This man, though I know him not, has done well for my city―Minas Tirith thanks him for his service in forming our army. He's skilled at his craft."

"But what does a city need with an army, anyway?" Hama asked, frowning. "Middle-Earth has been at peace for hundreds of years now!"

The traveler from Minas Tirith shook his head. "Not for much longer, Hama," he said. "I can speak testament for a growing unrest in our land. As can Gandalf and Eomer, I believe."

A blond, bearded rider in the garb of a resident of Rohan, Eomer, nodded. "Boromir is right," he said. "Now more than ever we need to take this man Aragorn's advice―and whatever aid he can provide. Edoras owes him for his prudence―we were attacked by several scores of Orcs naught but a fortnight ago, and it would have been destroyed had it not been for the army he formed for our town."

The other travelers looked nervous at Eomer's words. "Orcs?" Beregond said anxiously.

"Orcs," the old man, Gandalf, repeated grimly. "And with them. . ." He paused.

"Go on," Hama said bravely. "What else?"

" _Nazgûl_ ," said Gandalf. "I have seen the Black Riders myself―and I feel their presence on the air."

There was a collective gasp from the travelers. "Ringwraiths?" squeaked one man. "But―that means―"

But before he or anybody else could finish the sentence, the caravan came to another sudden stop. The men nearly tumbled off their horses a third time, save for Gandalf and the silent cloaked rider. "Hobbiton, men! We just crossed into Eriador!" the caravan driver shouted. "Everybody off so these beasts can be fed and watered!"

The riders obeyed, sliding off their mounts. Gandalf remained on his horse; he was not officially part of the caravan, but had ridden alongside to keep an eye on certain passengers.

Gríma, whose credibility and popularity had shrunk during the past exchange, was cast many hard and suspicious looks. Turning away from him, Beregond asked Gandalf hopefully, "Do you think we could run into this Ranger here?"

Gríma seized the opportunity to slide back into the travelers' good graces. "Not in Hobbiton, my lad," he said, trying to put on a winning smile, but only succeeding in making a disgusted Beregond edge further away. "Even the great Ranger Aragorn Dúnedain couldn't convince these neck-bowed Shirefolk that he could raise up an army for this 'great threat'."

"Though it pains me to say it, I'll have to agree with Wormtongue on this point," Boromir admitted. "My younger brother moved here about two years ago, and it's taken him awhile to gain the trust of the Shirefolk. They're a stubborn lot―these Halflings who live here. I wouldn't have even come all this way myself if it wasn't for Faramir."

Eomer looked surprised. "My sister who lives here wrote to me about a Faramir from Minas Tirith. Does your brother know of her?"

"Is your sister's name Eowyn?"

"Yes, it is." Eomer arched an eyebrow. "From her letters, Eowyn appears very taken with your brother."

"Well, from everything Faramir's written me, he is also quite captivated by your sister." Boromir's brow furrowed, seeing the man of Rohan in a slightly new light.

Eomer sighed, resigned. "I can't say anything more about this matter without making presumptions―but if your brother is as noble as my sister says he is, I do not fear for her―although she can easily care for herself."

"My brother is just as noble as any man of the White City should be," Boromir said defensively. "Even more, I can safely say."

While the two men were conversing, Beregond approached Gandalf again, Gríma listening in intently, having grown bored with Boromir and Eomer's public _tête-à-tête_. "If I were to seek out this man Dúnedain, what should I look for? I know you've met him before."

Gandalf's face crinkled into a small, mildly amused smile. "I've met many people, Beregond," he replied. "But the man you are so interested in finding doesn't let himself be found as easily as others. He has quite the knack for slipping into the shadows."

Beregond's eyes rested on the silent cloaked figure he had barely noticed on the ride to Hobbiton. "Such as that man over there?" he asked, gesturing to the man.

Gandalf's eyes twinkled, but he said nothing.

Gríma, however, scoffed as he glanced at the lone form with a contemptuous eye. "If _he_ were this infamous Ranger, I have no doubt whatsoever that these ignorant Shirefolk would be persuaded in a thrice that he carries good counsel," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Not all Shirefolk are as ignorant as you paint them to be, Wormtongue," Eomer spat. He and Boromir had come to a mutual agreement about the other's siblings, and now the man of Rohan turned his attention to Gríma. "Men and even Elves have come to dwell in Hobbiton and throughout the region of Eriador―and while Men may sometimes lack judgement in knowing ill advice from good, Elves do not."

"Since when have _you_ , Eomer son of Eomund, such faith in the Elves?" Gríma sneered.

"I have grown to respect them―they are a wise and noble race," Eomer retorted, grinding his teeth at Wormtongue's employment of a long-unused epithet.

"Well, even if the Elves _were_ on his side, Men and Halflings would never listen to him," Wormtongue scoffed.

But before Eomer or anyone else could make a reply, the caravan driver returned with the horses. "All aboard what's coming aboard!" he shouted, making a few men jump in surprise. "If you're fixing to stay, take your bas, otherwise, all aboard! This caravan's not coming back for another week, so now's the time to make your choice!"

"Well, _I'm_ staying―I haven't seen my sister in months," Eomer grunted as he unstrapped his bags from his former mount. "What say you, Boromir? Care to join me?"

"I believe I will." Boromir hefted his bags over his shoulder. "Will you be spending the night, Gandalf?"

"No, Boromir―I unfortunately have other matters to attend to and cannot tarry much longer here, quaint and pleasant as Hobbiton is," the elder replied.

Apart from these three, the other travelers climbed aboard their mounts once again―they were not keen on a week's stay in Hobbiton, for reasons we, the ever-watching, oh-so-silent, bystanders, do not yet know.

But just before the caravan could pull out, a fourth man leaped from his horse and began to unstrap his bags. "Gentlemen, your wariness intrigues me―I believe I'll have to give the Shire a try." It was the same cloaked figure who had remained as silent as we have been for the duration of the ride in.

"I don't believe I caught your name," Gríma inquired coldly.

With equal cordiality, the Man replied, "I don't believe I dropped it."

As one of his bags fell from the saddle, a flash of gold stitching caught the eye of every passenger aboard: embroidered in an elegant hand on the bag, was this name: _the Ranger Aragorn Dúnedain_.

* * *

Drawing back his hood, Aragorn permitted a small smile at the incredulous stares of the watching Men and Dwarves as the caravan trotted along down the road. Gríma looked absolutely furious, and the Ranger could still hear the Man swearing loudly as the horses disappeared around a bend in the road.

Turning to Eomer and Boromir, who stared at him in total astonishment, he said politely, "Well, men, shall we see what Hobbiton has to offer?"


End file.
